


in the middle of the night (you should see the things we do, baby)

by singsongsung



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 13:25:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12682833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singsongsung/pseuds/singsongsung
Summary: “What are you doing here, Jughead?” she asks.“Catching a glimpse of Betty Cooper in her natural habitat, of course,” he teases, and then breathes a sigh before he says, more seriously, “There’s a sock on my door.”College AU.





	in the middle of the night (you should see the things we do, baby)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Raptorlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorlily/gifts).



> Just a little bit of fluff in the midst of all the canonical angst. This takes place in a universe where Jughead, Betty, and Archie grew up together and all relocated to NYC for college. 
> 
> Many thanks to the lovely raptorlily for providing me with this prompt! 
> 
> Title from a Taylor Swift song I'm not even sure I like.

Betty is curled up beneath her duvet, the soundtrack of _Amélie_ emanating softly from her computer’s speakers, her nose - which is covered in a dark green face mask that makes her look like a swamp monster - buried in a Joyce Carol Oates novella, when there’s a tentative tap at her dorm room door. 

She frowns as much as her hardened mask will allow and glances at her clock; it’s 9:21 and she thought she was done with human interaction for the day. Nonetheless, she supposes one of the girls on her floor might need to borrow class notes or steal a tampon or something, so she kicks off the covers and heads for the door in her baggy white t-shirt and striped sleep shorts. 

There is not a girl with an apologetic smile on the other side of the door but a boy, whose apologetic expression shifts into amusement at the sight of her green face. “Looking good, Betts,” he says. “Green’s your colour.” 

Beneath the mask, she flushes. “What are you doing here, Jughead?” she asks. 

“Catching a glimpse of Betty Cooper in her natural habitat, of course,” he teases, and then breathes a sigh before he says, more seriously, “There’s a sock on my door.” 

She lifts an eyebrow and her mask cracks. “Oh.” 

“Yeah.” He leans a shoulder against the doorjamb and dips his head, rubs a hand against the back of his neck. “It was there an hour ago, so I took a walk, but when I went back there was still a lot of _oh, Archie_ going on.” 

Betty wrinkles her nose and her mask cracks again. “Gross,” she says lightly. 

“My thoughts exactly.” His eyes flick up from the floor to meet hers, and then they seem to dart, of their own volition, over her torso, before they fly up to her face again and remain there with a certain amount of resolve. Betty remembers that her shirt, though loose, is white, and she’s not wearing a bra. 

“So,” she says, and clears her throat after a little crack in her voice turns the word into two syllables. “You came all the way here from NYU to tell me that Arch’s relationship with Veronica is going well?” 

“I thought it was a very importnt update,” he says in a faux-solemn voice. “And I might have been wondering if I could crash with you for the night. I don’t really have anywhere else to go.” 

“Of course,” she says, and steps aside so that he can come inside. The logistics will be complicated, she knows, in her small room with its single bed, but turning him away isn’t an option. 

“Thanks, Betts,” he sighs. “I owe you one. And Archie owes me a pizza. Or two.”

“Extra-large pepperoni.” 

He flashes her a grin, setting his bookbag down on her desk chair. “With dipping sauce.”

“Oh, of course, dipping sauce,” she teases. “How could I possibly forget.” 

For a moment, they look at each other, standing on either side of her little room. Betty is suddenly immensely relieved that she shaved her legs recently. 

“I’m just going to go wash this off,” she says, gesturing to her mask. “Make yourself at home.” 

 

 

 

In the floor washroom, she removes her mask, pats her face dry, and considers her reflection. She looks fine - _normal_ , the same way she’s looked every time Jughead Jones has ever seen her, except for the fact that her hair is a bit of a careless mess and the whole no-bra thing, but she also sort of feels frumpy and unremarkable. She wishes she was one of those girls, like Archie’s new girlfriend, Veronica, who sleeps in silky slips lined with pretty lace, and then she wonders, staring at herself, why that wish has materialized when Jughead’s waiting in her bedroom. 

Her hairbrush is in her bathroom caddy, so she uses it. 

 

 

 

Back in her room, Jughead is perched on the foot of her bed, wringing his hands like he’s nervous. He gets to his feet as she puts her things away and says, “So, if you don’t mind me snagging a pillow, I can sleep on the floor.” 

She blinks at him and looks from his earnest expression to the floor and back again. “It’s tile, Jug.”

“That looks soft,” he says, gesturing to the fluffy white rug she puts her feet on every morning. 

“Uh-huh, and it’s two feet long. How tall are you? Six-foot-something, right? You could literally fit a third of your body on there.” 

“Well, I’m not going to take your bed.”

“You’re not taking anything. We’ll share.” At the hint of alarm in his eyes, she sighs and ignores the sudden _thud_ of her heart against her ribs. “It’s only a big deal if we make it one, Juggie. We’ve known each other forever. We used to run shirtless through sprinklers in Archie’s backyard together.” 

“We were four.”

“And we were friends, just like we are now. I’m fine with it, I promise. Just don’t drool on my pillow.” 

“Betts - ”

“I _promise_ , Jug,” she says firmly. She holds her pinkie out to him, an old ritual from childhood. 

After a beat, he lifts his hand and hooks his pinkie through hers. “Thanks,” he says, and he gives her a smile, one that’s soft and a little tired at its edges and free from any of his usual sarcasm or irony. It’s a great smile; it makes her skin feel warm where they’re touching one another. 

“You’re welcome,” she replies, perhaps a moment later than she should have. They disentangle their fingers and she begins rearranging the blankets on her bed. 

“Do you mind if I take off my jeans?” he asks. “You can say no.” 

Betty swallows, feeling a spike of trepidation. She’s never had a boy in her bed in his boxers. She’s never had a boy in her bed, period. Without looking at him, she says, “Of course. I could never sleep in my jeans.” 

Behind her, Jughead rustles around. When she finally turns toward him, after smoothing out her blankets and fluffing her pillows far more than necessary, he’s removed his shoes, socks, and pants, but the thing that really grabs her attention is that his beanie is off, and his dark, messy hair is falling into his eyes. She can’t remember the last time she saw him without it. 

She tilts her head toward the bed, a wordless invitation, and goes to her computer to turn off her music. By the time she returns to the bed, Jughead is hugging the wall, and she manages to get beneath the covers without touching him. 

She turns off the light. 

 

 

 

There are a few seconds of silence, during which she can hear him breathe, and then he asks, “So how’re you liking _Black Water_?” 

Books are an easy topic, and she relaxes a bit more, staring up at her ceiling. “It’s good. Sad. The inevitability of it makes it kind of hard to read.” 

“Yeah. But that’s part of what’s good about it, isn’t it? I think it might be my favourite of Oates’.” 

She turns her head toward him. She can see the shine of his eyes in the darkness. “Of course it is. You love your national commentary.” 

“That is _patently_ untrue, Cooper,” he says. He shifts a little, partially onto his side, so that he can look at her more easily. “I love my _small town_ commentary.” 

“That you can project onto a larger scale.” 

“You’ve got me all figured out, huh?” 

“Only kind of.” She rolls onto her side, turning toward him. “I’m sure there are still some mysteries to Jughead Jones. But I’ll learn them, someday. Because you’ll give me your first interview, right? After you publish your book?”

“ _If_ I publish my book.”

“When,” she corrects firmly. Her feet brush against his. “Sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” he says, even as his brows knit in a wince. “Your feet are freezing.”

“I know,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.” He moves his legs closer to hers and sandwiches both of her feet between both of his. 

Betty wiggles her toes a little, greedy for the warmth. “Thanks.” 

“Any time.”

She smiles softly. “Be careful with that offer, Juggie. It’s almost winter.” 

“If I get exiled from my room again, I’d be more than happy to warm your feet in exchange for a place to sleep.” 

“You think this’ll become a common occurence?” 

He quriks an eyebrow wryly. “With Archie, anything’s possible.”

“So I should invest in an air mattress?”

Jughead laughs quietly, shifting around as he tries to get more comfortable while still keeping his feet securely on either side of hers. “I think I’m the one who should probably foot the bi - oh, sorry.” He yanks his hand back when he accidentally brushes it against her thigh. 

“It’s okay.” 

In a voice that sounds the slightest bit strangled, he says, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to feel you up.” 

Heat rushes into her cheeks and she’s thankful for the dark. “I know, Juggie. It’s okay. And you’re warm, so… it’s better than me touching you.” 

Because they’re so close, she can feel the tension leaving his body as he teases her, “You using me for my body, Betts?”

“You’re using me for my dorm room.” 

“Touché.” 

 

 

 

They talk about nothing for a few minutes, until Betty begins stifling yawns. When one finally escapes, she lifts a hand to cover her mouth, her fingertips accidentally making contact with his chin. “Sorry,” she mumbles through her yawn, blinking slowly. 

“No, I’m sorry for keeping you up. Go to sleep.” 

“You’re not keeping me up,” she says, forcing her eyes fully open to look at him. The look he gives her in return says _sure I’m not._

His fingers land on one of her cheeks, plucking very gently at her skin. When he pulls his hand away, he keeps one finger extended, showing her what he’s found. “Eyelash. Make a wish.” 

Obediently, she makes a throwaway wish ( _straight As this semester_ ) and blows her eyelash off his fingertip. It flutters away. 

“What did you wish for?” 

“To keep your feet in my bed even after you’re gone,” she quips, soft and sleepy. 

“Creepy,” he says, amusement clear in his voice. “I’m not sure how much good they’ll do you without blood flow.” 

“You’re right,” she agrees, half-smiling. “That is a conundrum.” 

He’s looking at her strangely, something unreadable in his eyes. He pushes a lock of hair out of her face and tucks it behind her ear; it's a careful, gentle touch, but it feels electric, somehow. Betty is suddenly wide awake. 

She examines his face for a moment, but either she’s too tired, or his expression is too inscrutable, for her to figure out what he’s thinking. “What?” she asks him, her voice nothing more than a murmur. Her big toe slides up and over his ankle bone, skin stroking skin.

A little smile tugs at his lips, making their corners twitch upward, but then it disappears again, like his body is uncertain about whether it belongs there. “What?” he echoes, looking at her just as intently as she’s looking at him. 

Her heart has picked up its pace. “I - I think you’re right,” she offers. “I think I’d need the rest of you, to keep your feet warm.” 

Jughead smoothes a few stray strands of hair back behind her ear. This time, when her lashes flutter, it’s not with the pull of sleep but with the pull of something else, something like desire.

“Betts,” he whispers, and it sends a shiver through her that settles low in her belly, a trembling feeling of anticipation. “I’m gonna kiss you.” 

And all she can say is, “Please.” 

 

 

 

He kisses her softly, his mouth moving with hers slowly, as if time will stop for this, as if they can make the moment go on forever. Betty lifts a hand to cup his jaw and a pleased little sound escapes from the back of her throat; it makes him smile into the kiss.

“What are we doing, Juggie?” she whispers without moving, her lips brushing against his with every word. 

“Something good,” he murmurs in reply, and about fifty butterflies seem to materialize in her stomach as he slides an arm around her waist and hauls her body flush against his. 

They kiss for the longest time, their tongues sliding together, Betty’s teeth nibbling at his lower lip in a way that makes him groan, Jughead brushing his knuckles very gently against the side of one of her breasts, his hand settling in against her hip, her fingers carding through his hair, their legs tangling together. 

He rolls them over to that she’s on her back, and she curls her legs up around his hips instinctively. He’s hard between her legs, his body so warm over hers, and she can’t help pushing her hips up against him, her hands smoothing over his back. He says her name, “ _Betty_ ,” like it’s a curse or a prayer, and she grasps his shoulders tightly. 

Jughead’s breathing hard when he pulls back, shaking his head. He shifts his weight up onto his knees so that he’s not pressed against her and says, “We have to slow down.” 

Betty starts to nod, but he contradicts himself a second later, kissing along the column of her neck and over her collarbone, pulling at her shirt to give himself access to more skin, and she finds herself tugging at him again. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs. He braces his hands on either side of her and pushes himself up slightly, so that his face hovers over hers. She cups his cheeks in her hands and he plants one soft kiss on her mouth before resting his forehead against hers. “Maybe _I_ owe Archie a pizza," he murmurs. 

She smiles so widely it hurts her cheeks, breathing a little laugh. “With dipping sauce?” 

Jughead smiles back at her and there’s something so tender about it that she melts. He doesn’t care what she’s wearing, or about her ugly green face mask, or about her freezing cold feet. He knows her. And now he’s looking at her like he wants her. 

“Definitely, yeah,” he says, a bit of breathlessness remaining in his voice. “With dipping sauce.”

Smile still in place, she tilts her chin up for another kiss, eyes falling shut when he gives it to her. 

She wants him, too. 

 

 

fin.


End file.
